


Late Snow

by Keiko Kirin (sakana17)



Category: The Last Samurai (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-08
Updated: 2005-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakana17/pseuds/Keiko%20Kirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Temptations of the past and the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Snow

That year the snow was late in falling, and after a few light teasing showers, it fell in great waves and filled the valley and the passes through the mountains and covered the village. Lord Katsumoto was rarely seen outside of the temple, although sometimes when Ujio descended from the northern slope where he trained alone, he followed Katsumoto's footprints to the village. And on occasion, these footprints were paired with another's: the slow, heavy, graceless steps of the _banjin_. With a mixture of anger and despair, quickly controlled, Ujio stared at the dual lines of impressions and walked deliberately in the space of unbroken snow between.

On the anniversary of the death of his father, Ujio entered the temple, knelt before the great silent Buddha, and murmured a brief chant. It was habit, it was ritual, and he had been doing it for so many years that only a perfunctory awareness of its significance remained. Nevertheless, he took comfort from showing his respect to a father he could barely remember. As he meditated on death and nothingness, a familiar scent and a familiar stride touched his senses. Ujio resisted opening his eyes, but after a while, when he could not regain his concentration, he looked sidelong at Lord Katsumoto kneeling beside him. Katsumoto was watching the Buddha, but not in prayer; the swiftness with which he met Ujio's glance showed plainly where his attention had been.

"I heard your voice," Katsumoto said, as if he needed to explain his presence. Or perhaps to emphasize his presence, Ujio thought as he bowed his head in acknowledgment.

"I've missed hearing it as I say my mantras," Katsumoto added. Ujio shifted his gaze to the Buddha and said nothing. He waited, and a while later Katsumoto also faced the Buddha, and after a long enough interval so that it would not seem abrupt, Ujio rose and left the temple. Following him into the snow was Lord Katsumoto's voice, loud and resonating, passionately chanting.

Early that night a footstep woke him: it was outside, a careful step, trying not to be heard. Ujio took a deep breath and reached from under the quilt for his short-sword resting on its stand. Cold air swirled briefly as the screen opened and closed, and then he knew the footsteps. But still he drew and raised his sword, because Lord Katsumoto would be disappointed if he did not.

Katsumoto laughed quietly. He sat very close, next to the bed. His breath smelled faintly of saké. Ujio turned away and sheathed his sword. "It is late," he said.

"No, it isn't," Katsumoto countered with a hint of amusement. "But it's very cold outside, and as I was passing I desired warmth."

A statement that was neither dishonest nor true, Ujio thought, but he was clearly not expected to believe it or refute it. He contemplated different strategies to get Katsumoto to leave, but while he carefully considered and abandoned each one, Katsumoto slid under the quilt next to him.

Ujio sat up, unable to see anything but the dark bulk of him. "My lord..." he protested, exasperated. That he couldn't prevent Katsumoto from staying dismayed him. That he wanted Katsumoto to stay dismayed him even more.

With an exaggerated yawn Katsumoto said, "I'm very weary. I can go no further on such a night." The smug, feigned sincerity in Katsumoto's voice irritated and amused Ujio.

Ujio murmured, "Of course, my lord may sleep where he wishes." He drew his robe together tightly and reached for his katana, deciding that the best course of action would be to leave Katsumoto alone: to go outside and keep watch while Katsumoto slept.

Katsumoto placed his hand over Ujio's, for a brief moment holding his fingers before letting go. Ujio sat motionless. He had no response -- no cautious response -- for such a gesture. He lay back, too agitated to sleep, keenly aware of Katsumoto's entire presence: his breathing, his warmth, his tension. Ujio expected Katsumoto to speak or to touch him again (_do I dread it or wish for it?_), but Katsumoto did not move. Nor did he sleep. The likelihood of either of them sleeping like this seemed very remote, Ujio thought. He closed his eyes, hoping for peace if sleep would not come: peace to savor Katsumoto's closeness, peace to cast himself into the tide of memories engulfing him.

The peace was broken when Katsumoto spoke: "There was a comb."

The ache that coursed through Ujio was at first hollow, but rapidly gathered substance until it pressed out against his body, like a demon struggling to free itself.

"It had a gingko leaf design inlaid on the handle," Katsumoto continued in a conversational, reminiscing tone.

Ujio hesitated. "I have it still," he said, the words coming out awkwardly and stilted.

"I should very much like to hold that comb again." There was a slight rasp in Katsumoto's voice.

Ujio opened his eyes. Without a word, he rose from the bed. He lit the lantern and slid open the door to the storage cupboard where his few personal possessions were kept: clothing, some books, and a small lacquer box. He glanced at the box and briefly touched its lid, but purposely did not open it. Beside it, with his everyday clothes, was a plain silk-covered wallet. He took the comb from this and brought it to Katsumoto, closing the cupboard behind him.

Katsumoto sat up, turning the comb over in his long fingers, examining it with a soft, wistful look that was not quite a smile. Ujio watched him, noticing new lines on his face, darker shadows beneath his eyes, a certain agreeable roundness to his chin. And although in his mind's eye Ujio had no difficulty in seeing the angular, smooth, serious young man who had given him the comb, part of him preferred this older version.

Katsumoto's fingernail followed an outline of bright red. "It's more fanciful than I remembered," he admitted with an embarrassed smile. Ujio lowered his eyes, smiling. He had thought it rather ugly -- and quite decadent: it was not a comb to give to one's sister or mother -- when he had first held it, but he had cherished it nonetheless. Katsumoto ran his thumb along the comb's teeth. "Well, a youth's first visit to Kyoto, with too much to spend and no experience or refinement to know what to spend it on... It could have been very much worse." He glanced at Ujio with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

Ujio looked at the comb and said mildly, "So I often thought while I was combing that inexperienced, unrefined youth's hair."

Katsumoto laughed, and his whole face changed, opening up, looking younger. He ran a hand over his bare, bald head. "A task you are forever relieved of, I'm afraid."

Ujio bowed his head. A very clear memory rose and took shape: the hour of dawn on a hot, humid morning; Katsumoto's naked, sticky skin; combing his hair while he dozed. He could almost hear the birdsong and taste the brief welcome cool breeze that preceded the sun's rise. He stared at the pattern on the thick quilt, bringing his mind out of the past.

"However..." said Katsumoto, moving closer. He reached for Ujio's top-knot and gently untied it. With his fingers, then with the comb, he loosened the hair which had been oiled to keep its shape and carefully began combing it out.

A pleasurable chill raced up Ujio's spine, and he was unable to resist this temptation; it had been so long, so many years. Katsumoto drew the comb forward in slow, even strokes, smoothing with his fingers in its wake, gradually releasing Ujio's hair until it fell in its natural part and hung free. Katsumoto sighed close to Ujio's ear and gathered his hair to expose one shoulder. His long, powerful arms circled around Ujio from behind. Ujio closed his eyes and took a breath and yielded to another, insistent temptation and leaned back into the embrace.

The interval of years melted away. Katsumoto's strong, flat, warm body held him again, exactly as it had. As if Katsumoto had never let go, as if there had never been any separation between them. Katsumoto sighed against Ujio's neck. Ujio covered Katsumoto's hands with his own, and Katsumoto tightened his hold.

Ujio breathed deeply of Katsumoto's warm, deeply familiar scent, and ran his fingers over Katsumoto's hands and forearms. His hands were rougher now, the skin drier, pocked with ancient cuts and grooves where they had once been smooth. His knuckles jutted out and thick knots of muscle corded at his wrists. The hair on Katsumoto's chin rasped against Ujio's cheek and neck.

"This," Katsumoto murmured with satisfaction, and Ujio waited for him to complete the thought, but it was, after all, already completed. When Katsumoto lay back, he didn't let go, and Ujio stretched out alongside him, shifting until they were both comfortable and drawing the quilt up around them. Katsumoto ran his fingertips through Ujio's hair, once, twice, very slowly, falling asleep. After some time, Ujio slept as well.

When morning came, the lamp was smoking, there were voices outside as women gathered by the central well, and Ujio was alone. Sleep slow to leave, the thought that last night was a dream passed through his mind, but as he rose something fell from the quilt and slid across the floor: the comb.

It snowed all day, a steady, thick snow without harsh winds, not heavy enough to be a blizzard. Ujio trained with the men until they were drenched with snow and sweat, then in late afternoon climbed the hill to the north and practiced alone. On the way he caught his first glimpse of Lord Katsumoto that day: he was walking with the banjin, deep in conversation. His voice sounded strange -- tentative, hollow -- with the foreign words he spoke. As Ujio passed them, he bowed, noticing that the banjin was staring at him with what he supposed was loathing, if one could read a banjin's feelings from his face. Such a stare was an unpardonable affront, one he would have punished had it been from anyone else, anyone other than this foreigner with his inexplicable hold over Lord Katsumoto.

Alone on the hilltop, the repetition of sword, air, swerve, turn, sword, air, calmed him. But his mind, too unsettled, returned to the past. He remembered clearly the day the young lord Katsumoto rode into the academy's grounds on a fine horse, wearing fine clothes and looking quite aloof. As had most of the other boys, Ujio had disliked him on sight, had thought him an arrogant snob, and the subsequent weeks, when the young lord was provided with private quarters and ushered into the top classes, had done nothing to improve his opinion. Then they had been matched together during practice, and although Katsumoto had seemed insultingly disinterested in the contest, he was a better opponent than Ujio had expected. And afterward, after Ujio had bested him, Katsumoto had surprised him by seeking him out, embarrassing him with honest praise, completely unaware of Ujio's dislike. Then he had surprised Ujio further by asking for his assessment of Katsumoto's own skills with the sword.

Ujio, who had been in trouble before for his rudeness, answered bluntly, if truthfully, "I think you are lazy and stubborn, accustomed to winning over weak opponents. Moreover, you seem to have a very high opinion of yourself, which will only make your enemies more intent on destroying you." He had not actually witnessed the latter from their match together, but had not been able to resist adding it. He had waited calmly for the outburst, for the challenge, had wondered which of them would die (perhaps outrage would give Katsumoto an advantage he otherwise lacked), but in the end he had not been much surprised when Katsumoto had laughed and agreed with him. By then, he had figured out that the young lord was not what he appeared to be, not what he was expected to be. He was not like anyone else.

From then, they were friends. A summer passed, the young lord went away for the winter, the next summer began and he returned, and they became inseparable. For three summers that seemed like they could last forever but which inevitably ended, they were inseparable. _How young we were_, Ujio thought, slicing his blade through falling snow. _Without the cares of men._

He practiced until the light began to fail and returned to the village to a waiting meal and bath. The servant came to oil and dress his hair, but Ujio sent her away, and later regretted this when he sat alone through the night, staring at his small lacquer box until he fell asleep.

The touch of the comb woke him to a silent blackness overwhelmingly filled with Katsumoto's presence. Several responses came to Ujio's mind; all of them discarded with the stroke of the comb, the warmth of Katsumoto's breath, the glide of Katsumoto's leg next to his. Ujio reached for the box and opened it: the scent of clove oil. Katsumoto's sure, rough palm slid from Ujio's shoulder to his wrist, pushing his robe away.

A long while later, when the cold air around them still felt soothing, Katsumoto's fingertips sought and found the old, old scar on Ujio's shoulder which had been left by Katsumoto's blade. Ujio smiled softly, relaxing into further indolence, and imagined he felt Katsumoto's heartbeat against his cheek.

Katsumoto's chest thrummed beneath him as he spoke. "It was noticed, when I returned, that you hadn't married."

After a pause Ujio said, "The woman I thought to marry married someone else," which he felt was the most honest, if least complicated, version of events.

"Ah," Katsumoto said, politely sympathetic. He rubbed the old scar with his thumb, continuing in a carefully mild tone, "But it's to be hoped that you haven't been entirely solitary... that there have been some pleasant diversions..." He could not quite disguise the question.

Ujio, who had no intention of answering, stretched lazily. "My lord has always been curious about who shares my bed," he observed. Katsumoto shifted uneasily, and Ujio added, "when the only one who should concern him is the one who presently shares it." He sat up, stretching again, and wrapped himself in his robe.

Katsumoto made an impatient, chastised sound and pulled the quilt around him. Ujio lay back, and Katsumoto drew him into the quilt. He combed his fingers through Ujio's hair. "You never spoke to me like that when we were boys." Though this was untrue -- if anything, when they were boys, Ujio had spoken to him very much worse -- Ujio didn't contradict him. He was pleasantly tired, too tired for older memories when the recent ones could still be felt: Katsumoto's mouth on his beard, the rasp of the hair on Katsumoto's legs.

Katsumoto pressed close and licked along Ujio's jaw and beard. "I wouldn't be jealous... Well, perhaps I would. But I never wished for you to be alone."

His sincerity and honesty were too painful for a moment, and Ujio tensed. Gradually relaxing with Katsumoto's caresses, Ujio had nothing he could say to this, nothing he wanted to say when the words could only hurt them both. Katsumoto understood without wanting to understand, and Ujio couldn't save him from that.

Sleep came and went in uneven, disjointed intervals, and Ujio woke in a frigid blackness expecting to be alone. But no, Katsumoto was there, still, again, sliding over him, bringing him the dawn. And afterward Katsumoto lay heavily in his arms as the weakest light filtered in and outlined the angles of his body.

Ujio caressed Katsumoto's beard and lips, skimming his fingertips over hair and soft yielding flesh. "It's late."

Katsumoto smiled. "It's very early." He rose up, looking down at Ujio, the intensity of his eyes at once serious and inviting. "Besides, where can I go? I am trapped, it seems."

Ujio opened his arms and legs, letting him go.

"By your eyes," Katsumoto said. "Trapped completely."

Ujio looked away. "You sound like a foolish boy."

Katsumoto slid off of him and pulled the quilt around his shoulders. "And yet I feel like a sore old man. I will have to do a lot of meditating today on the illusory gratifications of the flesh," he said, amused.

Ujio sat up and tied his robe. "Then perhaps my lord should hasten to the temple." He cast a sidelong look at Katsumoto, who smiled at him.

"I shall," Katsumoto said, running his hand down Ujio's forearm. "Ah, but there was something I meant to request... I got distracted last night... I'm distracted still..." he murmured against the curve of Ujio's neck. "Which is why I shall hasten to my meditations."

"Yes, my lord," Ujio said, teasingly polite, arching his neck for Katsumoto's kiss.

Katsumoto brushed his lips against Ujio's cheek with a soft sigh and sat back. "It's about the banjin," he said matter-of-factly. "If he comes to you, I want you to train him in the way of the sword."

In an instant, the room was bitterly cold. Ujio turned and stared at Katsumoto, barely able to check his anger and revulsion. "My lord..."

Katsumoto's gaze pierced through him: complete authority, complete control. "It is my request." Relaxing slightly, he said, "He may never come to you. He may be too proud or too foolish. I can't tell. But if he does, this is my wish."

Ujio looked away and nodded stiffly. "As Lord Katsumoto wishes."

The silence between them was like a tangible thing, frozen and hovering in the gap between their bodies. Katsumoto rose and dressed. Ujio put away the lacquer box and the comb. As Ujio stood, Katsumoto smoothed a lock of hair away from his cheek.

Ujio met his gaze evenly. He couldn't comprehend Katsumoto's attitude toward the banjin, but he didn't need to in order to do what Katsumoto wished. Katsumoto knew this; they understood each other perfectly.

"I wish for many things," Katsumoto said quietly, brushing a strand of hair from Ujio's jaw with his finger. "Not all of them possible or even very wise."

Ujio took his hand, steered it away from his face, and held it briefly before letting go. Katsumoto's look was grave, cautious, perhaps even mildly frightened. He was very still, not moving until he stepped away and left the room.

Ujio went to the open door. Staring at Katsumoto's footprints in the snow, he said quietly, "So do I, my lord." He slid the screen shut.

(the end)


End file.
